


four on the floor

by tripcyclone



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Sex, Drinking, Exhibitionism, Foursome, Multi, Polyamory, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-14 10:05:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14767520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tripcyclone/pseuds/tripcyclone
Summary: Yuri and Otabek are both keeping secrets about Victor and Yuuri.





	four on the floor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lady_Ganesh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Ganesh/gifts).



 

 

 

Otabek and Yuri had only been friends for four hours before Yuri told Otabek his deepest secret.  They were leaving the restaurant where they’d had dinner with the other Men’s skaters, and Yuri was walking deliberately slowly, trying to put some distance between them and everyone else.  He wasn’t consciously aware he was glowering until Otabek said, mildly, “Why are you mad?”

Yuri nodded ahead.  “Those motherfuckers.”

Otabek surveyed the group in front of them.  Chris and Phichit were walking side-by-side, looking at something on Chris’s phone; Mari and Minako were laughing and talking to each other in Japanese; and Yuuri was walking hand-in-hand with Victor, the tips of his ears burning red as Victor relayed another embarrassing story about last year’s banquet. 

“Victor and the other Yuuri?” Otabek guessed. 

“They’ve known each other for _ten minutes,_ _”_ Yuri said.  “And now they’re engaged?  Fucking idiots.”

Otabek didn’t state the obvious: that the half-naked pictures of Yuuri on Victor’s phone were proof that they’d known each other for at least a year.  “They seem happy,” is all he said. 

 _“Ugh,”_ Yuri said.  He shoved his hands in his pockets.  “I can’t believe he doesn’t remember _anything_ from the banquet.  It was...”

It was mortifying.  It was mortifying for Yuuri, who had made a disgusting spectacle of himself, and it was mortifying for Victor, who had happily let Yuuri feel him up all evening long, and it was mortifying for Yuri, who couldn’t stop _thinking_ about it, months and months after it happened. 

Which wasn’t _his_ fucking fault.  He’d never had an almost-naked guy doing upside-down splits two meters away from his head before.  And then Victor started helping Yuuri back into his clothes, and Yuuri kept wobbling, and Victor said _“Hold him still”_ and shoved Yuuri’s flexible, smooth, deceptively muscular body right into Yuri’s arms, and what the fuck was Yuri supposed to do with _that_ except think about it compulsively every time he crawled into bed at night?

Yuri stopped walking.  Otabek stopped too.  “If I told you something,” Yuri said, “you wouldn’t tell anyone else, right?”

“Not if you didn’t want me to.”

Even though they’d only been friends for a few hours, Yuri believed him.  Yuri looked over at Yuuri, who was growing smaller in the distance.  “I have this... _thing_ for him,” Yuri said. 

Otabek looked over too.  “Victor?” he asked.

“Ew, no,” Yuri said.  “Katsud—the other Yuuri.”

“Oh,” Otabek said.  He observed Yuuri for a moment.  “I don’t know much about him.  He did have a...striking presence in those photos.” 

Yuri felt weirdly relieved by his nonchalance.  It wasn’t like the secret had been eating him alive or anything, but he knew if he had told anyone else in his life, they would’ve made fun of him.  “It’s fucking embarrassing,” Yuri said.  “And it’s not like I wanted to _do_ anything about it.  But it’s just pissing me off, to see them like that.”

“It’s understandable,” Otabek said.  “No one likes to think a door’s been closed on them.”

He said it with a satisfying gravity.  “Yeah,” Yuri said.  “Especially when the person closing the door is such an obnoxious idiot.”

“Victor?” Otabek asked.  “Do you not like him?”

“Holy shit,” Yuri said.  “Where do I fucking start?  He promised me two years ago he’d choreograph my senior debut, and then he _forgot_ about it—”

That evening was all the proof Yuri needed that Otabek actually wanted to be friends with him.  He listened to him bitch about Victor Nikiforov all the way back to the hotel.

 

...

 

Otabek didn’t reveal _his_ deepest secret to Yuri until years later. 

It was three hours after the medal ceremony at the Internationaux de France, and Otabek was DJing a set at a small, packed club.  He didn’t want to wear his medal while he performed, so he gave it to Yuri for safekeeping.  Yuri tucked the gold into his pocket next to the silver that was already there, his feelings caught somewhere between pride and aggravation. 

The set went well—Otabek had the crowd eating out of his hand—and when it was over Otabek rode the wave of applause down to where Yuri was standing.  He grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him backstage.  It was cramped, and dirty, and the club’s green room was basically a closet with a couch in it, but Yuri didn’t care.  A torn couch was a major step up from the filthy club bathrooms Otabek usually dragged him into after a set. 

“How was it?” Otabek asked, peeling off his jacket.  His movements were jerky, full of electric energy. 

“You don’t need _me_ to tell you it was good,” Yuri said.  “They fucking loved you out there.”

Otabek’s t-shirt was patchy with sweat and he peeled it off, mopping at his forehead.  “I don’t care what anyone thinks except you.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Yuri said, like he didn’t love it.  He yanked Otabek’s shirt away and threw it on the floor.  Otabek’s hands, free of any impediment, went immediately to Yuri’s hips.  “You were amazing,” Yuri said, snaking one hand through Otabek’s damp hair.  “I’m fucking pissed at how amazing you were today.”

Now he was talking less about the set and more about the pair of medals in his pocket.  It wasn’t in Otabek’s nature to grin, but the satisfied slant of his mouth was more pronounced than Yuri had seen it in a long time.  Yuri closed his fist in Otabek’s hair and pulled him forward, and that slant broke open around a sharp inhale as Yuri kissed him.  Otabek tasted like the two shots of whiskey he’d had mid-set, and his hands on Yuri’s hips slid upward, under his shirt, hot fingers climbing Yuri’s ribs.  “What’d you think of my last combination jump?” Otabek asked. 

“I think you’ve been fucking holding out on me,” Yuri said.  “Was that a last minute change, or were you planning on doing that all along?”

The hitch of Otabek’s mouth was all the answer Yuri needed.  “You motherfucker,” Yuri said, giving his hair a hard tug.  “Since when do you keep secrets from me, Altin?”

It had taken Yuri a long time to figure out the subtle tells of Otabek’s face.  His emotions didn’t spill freely onto his expression: they sidled up sideways, toyed with the edge of his mouth, the set of his jaw.  So Yuri wasn’t prepared at all for the way Otabek’s face suddenly flattened—an expression so unequivocally _guilty_ that Yuri drew back, startled.  “Whoa, what is it?”

Otabek didn’t say anything.  He broke eye contact, looking down at the ground. 

Yuri went cold.  _“What?”_ he demanded.   

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Otabek said, his voice low and toneless. 

Oh fuck.  Oh _fuck_.  Yuri had been afraid of this day for _years._   He had finally met someone else—someone in Kazakhstan, someone he could see in person more than a handful of times a year, someone he could _touch_ when he felt like it instead of having to always wait—

“Back during my Senior debut,” Otabek told the ground, “when I won bronze at Worlds, I had a DJ set scheduled for right after the banquet ended.  And I invited Victor to come.”

Yuri stared at him.  It was possibly the most bewildering statement that could’ve come out of his mouth.  “You invited Victor...to listen to you DJ?”

Otabek nodded. 

“Did he go?”

He nodded again.

Yuri felt like he was missing something.  “Okay?” he said.  “That’s weird, but—why are you freaking out about it?”

Otabek looked up at him.  “Well,” he said, and Yuri had never heard him sound _tremulous_ before.  “You know.  What do you and I do after you listen to me DJ?”

Oh. 

Oh _shit_. 

“You _fucked_ Victor Nikiforov?” Yuri said.  His vision started tunneling.

“No,” Otabek said hurriedly, “no, we didn’t get that far.  We only made out, I never even—”

Yuri took a few numb steps backward and dropped to a seat on the torn couch.  Otabek lurched forward and went onto his knees on the floor in front of him.  It would’ve been unspeakably hot under different circumstances.  “It only lasted a few minutes,” Otabek said.  “I think he was just humoring me.  He’d already met the other Yuuri at that point.”

“He _turned you down?_ _”_ Yuri demanded, his emotions whiplashing.  If ever he needed proof of Victor being the world’s biggest idiot—

“I know I should have told you earlier,” Otabek said, “but one of the first things you told me was how much you hated him.  I thought if you knew, you’d stop being friends with me.”

“I wouldn’t—” Yuri began, and then stopped.  He had enough perspective to recognize that his fifteen-year-old self had been a melodramatic asshole about a lot of things.  How _would_ he have reacted if his first real friend revealed himself to be yet another person that Victor had gotten to first?

The answer was _badly,_ and they both knew it.  “Why _him?_ _”_ Yuri asked instead, because that was the real question. 

“I—I don’t know,” Otabek said.  “All I knew about him was his skating.  He’d always been this larger-than-life figure, and when I was standing on the podium next to him, it just felt like...it would be another way of proving to myself I had made it to the top.”

It was a perpetual mystery to Yuri how anyone could look at Victor and see something glittering and mysterious and unobtainable.  He was a fucking _dork_.  He had a whole Instagram tag just for photos of his dog dressed up in clothes.  He certainly wasn’t so amazing that he could turn down _Otabek,_ who was twenty times hotter than him and a billion times more cool.  “Jesus,” Yuri said.  “Get off the floor, you’re gonna wreck your knees.”

Otabek got up and sat next to him on the couch.  He looked like a man waiting for the guillotine, and Yuri gave his calf a sharp sideways kick.  “I’m not gonna dump you just because your taste in guys was unbelievably shitty before you met me.”

“How about for keeping it a secret?”

Yuri sighed.  He heaved himself up off the couch and deposited himself unceremoniously into Otabek’s lap.  Otabek stared at him with uncharacteristically wide eyes as Yuri slung his arms around his neck.  “You’re right,” Yuri said.  “I would’ve freaked out if you told me back in Barcelona.”

Otabek’s hands went tentatively to his hips.  “I still should have told you sooner.”

“Do you still think he’s, like, attractive?”

Otabek’s face went carefully blank. 

 _“Gross,_ Beka, _”_ Yuri said. 

A sliver of humor found its way back into Otabek’s expression.  “You still think Yuuri’s attractive.”

 _“Ugh,”_ Yuri said, leaning in to bite at his earlobe.  “That’s fucking _different._ _”_

“Is it?”

It really wasn’t.  Yuuri used the same Instagram tag as Victor for photos of their dog dressed up in clothes.  “All right, fine,” Yuri said.  “We both have shitty taste in guys.  We’re lucky we found each other.” 

Then Otabek kissed his neck, and the flicker of heat that shot through Yuri reminded him of what they’d been doing before the interruption.  And he definitely wasn’t going to let the thought of stupid Victor Nikiforov stop him from fucking his boyfriend in a filthy Parisian nightclub like he’d been planning to do all night.  Yuri shifted insinuatingly in Otabek’s lap.  “You still want to?”

“Yes,” Otabek said fervently. 

Yuri reached into his pocket—the one that didn’t have their medals in it—and fished out the condom and lube he’d stashed there before they left the rink.  The look Otabek got on his face when he saw them was practically Pavlovian.  “You know what?” Yuri said, pushing Otabek down onto his back on the couch.  “It’s kind of too bad you didn’t get any further with Victor.  It would’ve been funny.  You would’ve been so disappointed.”

Otabek’s expression contracted a little.  “Why?”

“Okay, first, his dick is huge,” Yuri said, undoing Otabek’s belt.  “And second, he _never uses it._   He would’ve made you fuck him, one hundred percent.”

Otabek stared at him.  “How do you know...any of that?”

“Katsudon’s family owns this hot springs resort,” Yuri said.  “You can’t wear a swimsuit when you go in the water, you have to be naked.  I saw his dick every goddamn day I was there.  _And_ I’ve had the hotel room next to theirs at, like, eight hundred different competitions, and they’re loud as shit.  It was always Yuuri fucking him, never the other way around.”

Otabek blinked up at the ceiling as Yuri undid his fly.  “That’s a shame,” he said finally. 

“Like I said,” Yuri said.  “Shitty taste all around.”

 

...

 

Half an hour later, as they were sneaking back out to the dance floor, Yuri asked, suddenly, “Did you tell Victor to keep it a secret from me?”

“No,” Otabek said.  “I think he just has a decent sense of self-preservation.”

 

...

 

In truth, years of constant exposure to Victor had mostly worn down the sharp edges of Yuri’s anger.  He’d probably always be pissed that Victor forgot his promise to choreograph his Senior debut, but he had to admit that Victor had gone out of his way to make up for it in the years since.  He had spent a lot of unpaid time and effort helping Yuri master the quad Lutz and quad flip, and when Yuri used them to finally surpass Victor’s combined program point total—his last standing world record after he retired—Victor actually _cried_ as he told the press how proud he was of Yuri, like the unbelievably embarrassing dork that he was.  And then of course he cried again when Yuuri re-broke the record eight months later, but that wasn’t surprising.  Yuri had seen him cry over a picture of Yuuri on a cereal box before. 

And every year since he started putting on summer ice shows, he made sure to invite both Yuri and Otabek to participate.  He probably knew it was pointless to ask only one of them; the off-season was their only chance to be together for more than a few days at a time.  This year, the last show was in Hasetsu, and Yuuri and Victor were going to stay in town afterward for a two-week vacation.  “You and Otabek could stay too, if you wanted,” Yuuri told Yuri.  “The place we’re renting has two bedrooms.” 

Yuri would never admit it to Yuuri, but he actually liked Hasetsu a lot.  The ocean, the weird fake castle, all the huge, insane statues—and no spa or bathhouse he’d ever tried had lived up to his memory of the onsen.  If he was going to take a vacation anywhere, Hasetsu was probably at the top of his list.  Plus the last time he went, he hadn’t even been able to have katsudon, which was bullshit.  Apparently cooking two hundred servings of it wasn’t what Yuuri’s dad wanted to do on his son’s wedding day. 

So Yuri muttered _“maybe”_ to Yuuri and asked Otabek what he thought when they Skyped later that night.  “I know you like it there,” Otabek said.  “And I’ve only ever been there when we’re performing.  It might be nice to have some time to look around and enjoy it.  But—”

Yuri frowned.  He hadn’t expected there to be a _but._

“We’d be staying with Victor and Yuuri,” Otabek said. 

“Oh,” Yuri said.  “Yeah, that’ll probably get obnoxious after a few days.  But at least we wouldn’t be paying for a hotel.”

Otabek shifted in his seat.  “I just thought maybe you wouldn’t want me to be socializing with Victor.”

The thought genuinely hadn’t occurred to Yuri.  “Like I’d be jealous?” Yuri said. 

Otabek nodded. 

“I mean, you’re not going to fuck him, right?” Yuri asked.  “We established that?”

The edge of Otabek’s mouth lifted.  “Right.”

“So whatever, it’s fine,” Yuri said.  “You don’t fuck Victor, I won’t fuck Yuuri.  Everything’ll just be normal.”

“Okay,” Otabek said.  “Sounds good to me.”

 

...

 

At first Yuri didn’t know why Yuuri and Victor were bothering to rent a place to stay when they could’ve just stayed at the onsen.  It didn’t occur to him until their first night in Hasetsu that the walls of the onsen were probably too thin for people as _goddamn fucking noisy_ as Yuuri and Victor.  At the new place, at least, Otabek and Yuri weren’t able to hear Victor and Yuuri having sex from the guest room.  Yuri knew that because they _were_ able to hear them having sex from the downstairs bathroom, and when he went to brush his teeth he was greeted with the always-terrifying sound of Victor moaning what sounded exactly like Yuri’s name, no matter how many extra _u_ _’_ s he shoved in there.  He stomped back to the guest room, where Otabek was reading a book on the bed.  “Come brush your teeth,” Yuri said. 

Otabek’s brow creased.  “Uh,” he said.  “Okay?”

He followed Yuri to the bathroom and actually picked up his toothbrush before he heard the sounds coming from above them.  “Oh,” he said.  He listened for a little while.  _“Wow.”_

“Right?” Yuri said.  “This is my fucking _life_ during the competition season.”

It was extremely obvious who was fucking who: Yuri could see the downward tug on the edge of Otabek’s mouth as they heard Victor groaning _“Harder, Yuuri, right there.”_ “That’s such a shame,” Otabek said, jamming his toothbrush pensively into his mouth. 

“And you haven’t even seen his dick yet,” Yuri said. 

Above them, Yuuri’s encouraging words switched over to Japanese.  Yuri knew that meant the end was near—although with them you could never tell if it was the _end_ , or if it was just a temporary hiatus before they started up all over again.  Otabek brushed his teeth distractedly, eyes angled up at the ceiling.  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other other, and Yuri realized that there was a faint bulge starting to show in his underwear.  “Is this getting to you?” Yuri asked.

“Does it not get to you?”

It used to.  The first time they went to Worlds together, Yuri heard Yuuri moan through their adjoining wall and almost passed out from how fast the blood went rushing to his dick.  Yuuri, who had spent months claiming his _eros_ was _katsudon,_ sounded so unselfconscious in bed that Yuri almost couldn’t believe it was the same person.  But then of course he ruined it by saying _“Victor,”_ over and over, and then Victor was saying _“Yuuri,”_ and Yuri was jamming his earbuds into his ears so fast he almost snapped the cord.  These days, listening to music when he heard them starting up was practically instinct on his part.

Otabek leaned over to rinse his mouth in the sink.  Yuri moved a little closer and let his fingers brush over Otabek’s bulge.  Otabek gurgled in surprise, spat, and straightened up.  “Yura—” he said, wiping his mouth with one hand. 

Yuri leaned in and kissed his damp, mint-tasting mouth.  Above their heads, Victor had stopped using words and was just making sounds: rhythmic, loud, almost pained.  Yuri slid his hand down Otabek’s underwear and gripped him hard.  “You wanna pretend?” he said, keeping his voice low.  “You want to pretend it’s him doing it to you?”

Otabek closed his eyes, jaw tight.  “I don’t know—if that’s—”

Yuri pulled the elastic of his underwear down underneath his balls and reached across the counter for his toiletries bag.  The lube was in the bedroom, but he had lotion, and within a few seconds he was pulling Otabek’s cock through his slick fist, making him groan.  “Be quiet,” Yuri said, voice still low.  “If we can hear them, they can probably hear us.”

Otabek sucked down on his lower lip, his head tossed back, and he was so fucking _gorgeous_ that Yuri wanted to eat him alive, to bite him all over like a piece of meat.  Above them, Yuuri was cooing words that Yuri didn’t understand, but they were probably the same things he’d been saying in English a moment earlier: _come on_ and _that_ _’s it_ and _good, you_ _’re so good_.  “Come on,” Yuri murmured, his mouth close to Otabek’s ear.  His hand on Otabek’s dick caught a rhythm: it pulled to the punctuating _ah!_ of Victor’s voice, to the dull thud of skin as Yuuri fucked into Victor, again and again and again.  Otabek made a tiny, clenched noise, trying to be quiet, and Yuri sucked on his earlobe, gnawed lightly on the side of his ear.  “Good,” he whispered, “you’re being so good,” and Otabek fucking _twitched_ when he said it, his face contorting helplessly. 

And then Victor’s moans were coming faster, and so Yuri’s hand moved faster, and then he was closing his eyes, picturing it: Yuuri with his hands on Victor’s hips, shoving into him, harder and faster with each passing second.  Yuuri would have that line of concentration on his brow that he got when he was skating, the lithe rolling of his hips turning staccato, and he’d lean over Victor, murmuring confidently, encouragingly, while Victor’s face was pure desperation—

Otabek groaned sharply, loudly, and Yuri opened his eyes just in time to see him come, warmth spattering Yuri’s wrist and forearm, darkening the cloth of his t-shirt.  Otabek clapped his hand over his mouth as Yuri finished him off, a few last tight and purposeful tugs before he was dry. 

The upstairs was silent.  That might’ve meant Victor and Yuuri had come, too. Or it could have meant—

“Do you think they heard me?” Otabek mumbled.  His face was red, beads of sweat collecting at his hairline. 

“Who fucking cares?” Yuri said, and kicked open the door with his foot so he could drag Otabek back to the bedroom for another round.

 

...

 

Yuri woke up the next morning to bright, cheerful knocking on their closed door.  “Yurio!  Otabek!” Victor called.  “Are you awake?”

Otabek stirred and murmured incoherently.  “Fuck _off,_ ” Yuri groaned, his voice rusty. 

“We were going to go to the onsen and get katsudon before the lunch rush starts.”

Instantly Yuri’s taste buds hauled him up into consciousness.  “All right, fine, we’re coming!” he yelled.

The place they were staying was a ten minute walk from the onsen.  Yuuri and Victor both spent the walk acting very normal, and not at all like they had heard Otabek getting off directly below their bedroom the night before.  Partway through, Victor hung back and observed Yuuri critically.  “You’re favoring your left leg,” he said.  “Is it your ankle?”

Yuuri’s ankle had been bothering him for the last two shows of the tour.  “It’s just a little stiff,” Yuuri said.  “I’ll be fine once I get it warmed up.”

“Maybe we should wait and call a car,” Victor said.

“No, it’ll be fine.” 

Victor got a slightly pinched look on his face.  Literally the only time Yuri ever saw the two of them fight was when Yuuri was on the cusp of illness or injury, and the two of them had different ideas about how much he could handle.  “It’s a _ten minute walk_ ,” Yuri said, before they could start sniping.  “If his ankle gets any worse I’ll fucking carry him.”

He was a little surprised when Victor thought about it and seemed to find it acceptable.  It wouldn’t be the first time Yuri had hauled Yuuri bodily around, although all the other times had been late at night when Yuuri was either too drunk to walk or just drunk enough to be annoyingly slow.  “That’s so nice of you, Yurio,” Yuuri said. 

“I’m not doing it to be nice,” Yuri said.  “I’m doing it for the katsudon.”

“Do you mean me, or the food?”

“The _food,_ obviously,” Yuri said.

When they arrived at the onsen, Yuuri’s mother fluttered happily around all of them, talking a mile a minute in a mix of languages.  Yuuri didn’t hug her—the Katsukis didn’t hug very much, from what Yuri had seen—but of course Victor leapt in for one almost immediately.  She beamed at him, patting his back as he said something to her in Japanese.  “How’s his diction?” Yuri asked Yuuri. 

“Charming,” Yuuri said diplomatically. 

Yuuri’s dad was cooking in the kitchen, and when he came out with their katsudon, Victor waited for him to set the tray down and then hugged him, too.  Yuuri’s mom brought over a tray of glasses and a sake bottle.  “So old now,” she said as she set a glass down in front of Yuri.  “Yurio can drink, yes?”

Yuuri sat up a little straighter.  “That’s right,” he said.  “Yurio, you can get into bars now!”

“Oh great,” Yuri said.  “Like _you_ needed another excuse to go drinking.”

“You can get into clubs now, too,” Otabek said.  “Does Hasetsu have any?”

“I think there’s at least one downtown,” Yuuri said.  “Mari would probably know if there are others.”

Yuuri’s mother set bowls of katsudon in front of each of them.  She gave Yuri a fork with his—he had gotten better with chopsticks since the first time he was in Hasetsu, but maybe she knew he’d want to shovel it into his mouth with as little effort as possible.  Victor and Yuuri started eating, both of them making noises that wouldn’t have sounded out of place coming through the bathroom ceiling last night, but Yuri held back until Otabek had tried his first bite. 

“Oh,” he said, raising his eyebrows.  “That _is_ good.”

Yuri dug into his bowl, secretly relieved.  If Otabek had hated katsudon, it would’ve been a really petty reason to break up with him.

 

...

 

Later that afternoon, when Otabek sank into the hot springs for the first time, Yuri watched the strength in his muscles melt into satisfied rubber.  “It’s great, right?” Yuri said. 

“Mmm,” Otabek said, instantly too relaxed to form words. 

He closed his eyes, and kept them closed even when Victor and Yuuri came out to join them a few minutes later.  Yuri kicked his ankle underneath the water.  Otabek opened his eyes and saw them—

—and Yuri almost laughed out loud at the way his expression changed.  Victor and Yuuri probably wouldn’t have noticed that it had changed at all, but Yuri knew exactly what it meant when Otabek’s lower lip dropped a centimeter, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly.  Victor stepped down into the water, his dick jostling heavily against his thigh, and Otabek swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. 

“That’s such a _shame,_ _”_ he said, quiet but full of feeling. 

 

...

 

Yuri learned something about himself later that night, when they went to one of the clubs Mari recommended downtown.  He didn’t feel the slightest bit of jealousy over Otabek admiring the size of Victor’s dick, but he _did_ feel a little territorial when Otabek and Victor just...talked. 

Which was stupid.  Victor had brought along a bunch of paperback books to read during the tour, and Otabek had borrowed one while his phone was charging, and now they just...talked about the book.  It’s not like _Yuri_ wanted to talk about the book.  It was about trains or some shit, and whenever Victor or Otabek brought it up, Yuri’s eyes immediately glazed over.  But something about the casual, familiar way the two of them spoke caused the slightest pit to form in Yuri’s stomach.  It was dumb, but it was there. 

After the first round of drinks, Yuri excused himself to the bathroom, and he lingered there a little longer than necessary, staring at himself in the mirror.  _Don_ _’t be an idiot_ , he thought.  This was exactly what Otabek had been afraid of when they talked about going on vacation in the first place.  He didn’t want to prove him right.

When he went back out, Victor and Otabek were still talking, and there were three empty shot glasses lined up in front of Yuuri’s empty chair.  “Oh shit,” Yuri said.  “Where is he?”

“He wanted to dance,” Victor said.

Yuri rolled his eyes.  “By himself?”

“No,” a voice said very close to his ear.  Yuri startled as Yuuri hooked his chin over Yuri’s shoulder, wrapping his arms briefly around Yuri’s midsection.  “With you.  My _sworn rival._ ”

Yuri saw a flicker of amusement on Otabek’s face as Yuuri rotated Yuri around.  “You fucking lush,” Yuri said, but there wasn’t any bite in it.  The warmth of Yuuri’s hands on his wrists made him dopier than the drink he’d had ten minutes ago.  “I told you at the last banquet, I'm not dancing with you when you're drunk anymore.”

Yuuri looked hurt.  “Why not?”

“You dance better when you’re drunk,” Yuri said.  “It's an unfair advantage.”

Yuuri pulled him out onto the dance floor.  “You’re too intimidating to dance with sober,” Yuuri said.  “I always need the courage.”

“What kind of courage were you drinking just now?”

“Tequila.”

Oh fuck.  Yuuri on tequila was way more rowdy than Yuuri on vodka or whiskey.  “You better behave yourself,” Yuri said.

“No,” Yuuri said, and started to dance. 

And it was _absolutely_ unfair for Yuri to be jealous of Victor and Otabek's book club when Yuuri was dancing in front of him like that, all the rhythm in his hips, the heat of his body as hot as sunlight against Yuri's skin.  The dance floor was crowded and they were right in the middle of it, hidden from Victor and Otabek’s view, and Yuri felt an unnerving compulsion to reach out, to lock onto the beat by taking Yuuri’s switching hips into his hands— 

“Yurio,” Yuuri said, reaching out to tap the side of Yuri's head. “You're not going to win by _thinking._ _”_

“So it’s a competition?”

“It’s always a competition!”

So Yuri started dancing: not _with_ Yuuri, but kind of _at_ him.  No touching, just the two of them in their separate bubbles, inviting comparison.  Yuuri grinned, looking incandescently happy.  The songs all melted together in Yuri’s ears, unified only by the driving beat, and after a little while his thoughts dropped out of his head, that blissful feeling of pure exertion filling him up.  Time passed, punctuated only by Yuuri’s occasional happy laugh, until—

Yuuri grabbed him by the arm.  “I need to sit down,” he said, his voice a little strained. 

Yuri blinked, turning vaguely toward the other end of the room where Victor and Otabek were sitting, but Yuuri was moving in the opposite direction, toward an empty table on the edge of the crowd.  “Why are you—” Yuri said. 

“I just need to catch my breath,” Yuuri said, sitting down heavily. 

So Yuri sat down, too.  His head was light and buzzing.  It felt weird to suddenly be a bystander to the rhythm and movement, like the rest of the room was trapped in a spell that he and Yuuri had snapped out of. 

Then Yuri's previous thoughts descended slowly and heavily back into his mind, and he found himself frowning.  "What's wrong?" Yuuri asked.  

Yuri glanced at him.  “Do you—” he said, and then paused. 

“Hmm?” Yuuri asked. 

“Does Victor tell you everything about himself?”

Yuuri looked thoughtful.  “I wouldn’t know, would I?” he said.  “That’s something you can’t know.”

It was pretty philosophical for someone five drinks deep.  “But yes,” Yuuri continued, “of course he does.  It’s _Victor._ _”_

“Did he ever tell you—”  Oh fuck, he knew this wasn't a good idea.  “Did he ever tell you about him and Beka, back during Beka’s Senior debut?”

“When they went clubbing?”

So even _Yuuri_ had known.  “Beka said they made out,” Yuri said.

Yuuri nodded.  “Right.  Clubbing.”

Yuri rolled his eyes and looked away.  “Beka didn’t tell me until this year." 

“Oh.”  A note of sympathy entered Yuuri’s voice.  “Were you upset?”

“I mean, no,” Yuri said.  “It was way before we started going out.  It’s just...weird.”

“Are you okay that we left them alone together?” Yuuri asked. 

“Of _course,_ _”_ Yuri said.  “I mean, they’re just talking about that stupid book, right?  It’s fine.  And it’s not like _Beka_ _’s_ upset that I’m over here dancing with you.”

“It’s not the same, though,” Yuuri said.  “We don’t have a history together.”

“Yeah,” Yuri said, “but I—”

He cut himself off.  What the fuck was he saying?   The correct answer to _“we don’t have a history together”_ was _“no, we don’t, it was a stupid comparison and you shouldn’t read anything into it.”_   He’d only had _one_ fucking drink, he should be able to get his tongue around the first part of that sentence, at least.  He tried again: “I mean, I—”

 _Fuck._ All he needed to say was the word _no._ A single fucking syllable, why was that so hard?

Yuuri reached over and touched his arm.  “Yurio,” he said, sounding more serious than he had before.  “We’re friends, right?”

Yuri exhaled.  That was something he was willing to admit.  “Yeah.”

“And you’ve always been really nice to me,” Yuuri said. 

Yuri gave him a sidelong look.  “What the fuck?  No I haven’t.”

“Mmm, maybe that’s not the right word,” Yuuri said.  “You’ve been—kind to me?  You carry me home when I’m drunk, and you make me pirozhki when I’m stressed out, and you always help me with my Russian when I’m confused.”

Yuri felt an involuntary burn rising on his face.  “So?”

“So, you’re a good friend to Mila, too,” Yuuri said.

Yuri looked at him, brow furrowed.  What did Mila have to do with anything? 

“You cook for her too,” Yuuri continued, “and you look out for her when we’re drinking, and you make her feel better when she’s sad.”

 _Fuck,_ this had gotten sappy.  “So what?”

Yuuri reached across the table and let his finger skim lightly over the shell of Yuri’s ear.  “Your ears don’t turn red when you’re with Mila.” 

Oh. 

Oh _shit_.

The tips of Yuuri’s fingernails brushed briefly through the hair behind Yuri’s ear, and then Yuuri leaned back, settling into his seat again.  His expression was fond.  “I like you too,” he said.  “Even when you’re mean to me, you’re nice.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Yuri said, his voice a little raspy.  He had no idea what to do.  Yuuri knew about Yuri’s dumb, years-long crush on him, and instead of letting him down gently, like Yuri had always imagined he would, he had said _I like you too_.  What the fuck was Yuri supposed to do with that?  What would Otabek say when Yuri told him? 

Oh, _fuck_ , Otabek—

“So,” Yuuri said, his voice suddenly bright and apologetic.  “I have a confession to make.  I tweaked my ankle while we were dancing.”

Yuri looked down and noticed the way Yuuri was holding his leg slightly off the ground.  Well, _that_ was something he knew how to react to.  “You fucking idiot,” he said. 

“You’re going to have to carry me back to the table,” Yuuri said.

So Yuri hoisted Yuuri onto his back and pushed through the crowded dance floor until they reached Victor and Otabek.  When Victor saw them, his face vacillated rapidly between concern and annoyance.  “Your ankle?” he asked Yuuri. 

“Mmm,” Yuuri said, like if he didn’t admit it Victor couldn’t get mad at him.  Yuri deposited Yuuri carefully into his chair, and barely had time to sit down himself before Yuuri turned to Victor and said, matter-of-factly, “Yurio knows about what happened with you and Otabek at Worlds.”

Victor visibly paled, rocking back in his seat a little.  “Oh,” he said, his eyes darting nervously over to Yuri.  “And I’m still alive.  That’s—that’s good.”

Yuri rolled his eyes.  That’s what he got for thinking Drunk Yuuri could be discreet.  “It’s fine,” he said.  “Beka told me earlier this year.  If I was going to kill you, you'd already be dead.”

“But," Yuuri said, "I don’t think it’s fair.  Yurio’s liked me for years, and he’s never gotten to kiss me.”

Pure, unadulterated panic flooded Yuri’s veins.  It was one thing for Yuuri to know about his crush; it was another fucking thing entirely for _Victor_ to know.  _“Katsudon,”_ he hissed.  _“What the fuck.”_

Both Victor and Otabek looked startled: Otabek’s mouth had opened by a centimeter, a faint line appearing between his brows, and Victor’s eyebrows were practically in his hairline.  And he had a high fucking hairline. 

Then Otabek said, abruptly: “Do you want to kiss him?”

For a second Yuri was confused.  Otabek already knew perfectly well all the things Yuri wanted to do to Yuuri.  But then he realized Otabek wasn’t looking at him; he was looking at Yuuri. 

He was asking _Yuuri_. 

“Yes,” Yuuri said.  “If it’s okay with you.”

Yuri stared at Otabek.  “Beka—”

“I’m okay with it,” Otabek said, his voice a little rough.  “If both of you want to.  You should have the chance.”  Then he looked at Victor.  “As long as you’re okay with it.”

Victor said, slowly, “It does seem like it would make things more fair.”

Holy shit.  Yuri didn’t know up from down in that moment; all he knew was that Yuuri was smiling at him, already leaning in.  And he knew that  _he_ was allowed to lean in too, to touch the side of Yuuri’s face, to draw Yuuri’s lips to his in a moment of soft, head-spinning warmth. 

And then the hot slide of Yuuri’s tongue into his mouth went through him like an electric shock, startling the breath out of his lungs.  And then he didn’t know what he was doing, his mouth was just _moving,_ kissing Yuuri over and over, their tongues pressing, the wet drag of their lips so intoxicating that Yuri didn’t know how he was supposed to stop—

And then they did stop.  Yuri panted as he realized Yuuri’s hands were cupping his face, holding them gently apart.  Yuuri’s wet lips pressed together as he swallowed.

“Wow,” Yuuri said.  _“Yurio.”_

Yuri looked over at Victor and Otabek.  Neither of them looked startled anymore: Otabek’s breathing was visibly labored, and Victor looked almost rapt. “It’s not fair,” Yuri said in a rush.  “You guys kissed five years ago, but I know Beka wants to—”

Otabek’s eyes widened, and Yuri cut himself off.  Oh fuck, had he crossed a line?  Victor angled his head to look at Otabek, seemed to take in his open mouth, his hard breathing. 

“I’m okay with it if you are,” he said. 

And then Otabek leaned in, and _fuck_ , Yuri was right, he had been wanting it, his mouth on Victor’s firm and seeking, and Victor wasn’t humoring him this time, his kisses deep, one hand burying itself in Otabek’s hair.  Yuri’s mouth went dry as they kissed, and kept kissing, until Otabek’s gasping inhale broke their lips apart. 

Victor and Otabek blinked at each other.  There was a long moment of silence. 

“Beka wants you to fuck him,” Yuri blurted out. 

Victor and Otabek both looked at Yuri.  Otabek’s mouth was open, panting—but there was no mistaking the tiny upward tick of his mouth.

“Yura wants to fuck you,” he said to Yuuri. 

And there they were: their two deepest secrets, hanging right there in the air, shameless and impossible.

Victor and Yuuri looked at each other. 

“Wow,” Victor said. 

 

...

 

And then from there it was momentum.  Victor called a car—Yuuri couldn’t walk home on his ankle—and in the backseat it was just the soft movement of hands, the brief dipping of mouths, low whispers.  “This is okay?” Yuri whispered to Otabek, even as Otabek’s hand moved up Victor’s thigh.

“Yeah,” Otabek said.  “It’s okay with you?”

Yuuri’s mouth was moving ticklishly over Yuri’s wrist.  “Yeah,” Yuri managed.  “If we want to stop—”

“Yeah,” Otabek said.  “We’ll say so.  Right?”

When they got back to the house they stumbled upstairs, Yuuri clinging onto Yuri’s back.  The bed in the master bedroom was big, but not really big enough for four people.  “Us first,” Yuuri said imperiously.  “I’m _injured._ _”_

And so Yuri lay Yuuri down on the bed and helped him take off his clothes, carefully drawing his pant leg over his injured ankle, until Yuuri was in nothing but his boxer briefs.  Yuri practically ripped his own clothes trying to get them off, and then their bodies sank gratefully against each other, Yuuri’s hands immediately exploratory, mapping out the bumps of Yuri’s spine, the muscles of his back.  Yuri lifted one hand and palmed the back of Yuuri’s neck, and he could tell Yuuri liked that, shifting against him, his hard dick pushing against Yuri’s thigh through the thin fabric of his underwear.  Yuri slid his other hand down Yuuri’s back and palmed his ass, and from those two points of control he kissed Yuuri right into the supine position, stretching him out on the bed. 

Yuuri said something delighted and incomprehensible in Japanese as he looked up at Yuri.  His body looked— _fuck_ , it looked like every centimeter of it was made to fit Yuri’s hands.  The sight of Yuuri pole-dancing in his underwear was basically the formative image of Yuri’s sexual subconscious, and for a second Yuri just looked at him, feeling dizzy.  Then he leaned over and dug his fingers under the waistband and started to pull.  It was time to make some new memories. 

Yuuri lifted his hips obligingly.  Yuri pulled his underwear down far enough to free his cock, and Yuuri reached for it with relief, gave himself a few slow, lazy pulls while Yuri cast his underwear onto the floor.  _Fuck._ It’s not like he hadn’t seen Yuuri naked before—getting in and out of the onsen, skin hazy through the steam—but impersonal nudity was _nothing_ compared to Yuuri spread out underneath him, hips canted, chest flushed.  Yuuri’s eyes dipped and rose, looking Yuri over too, and his hand quickened on his cock, his breath hitching.  “Yurio,” he said, and now the gentle tease was gone from his voice.  “Touch me.”

And it’s not like Yuri hadn’t touched him before.  All those drunken piggyback rides home, every one of them a delicious hell, with Yuuri lax and affectionate and plastered starfish-like to Yuri’s back.  But the feel of Yuuri’s warm skin under his hands made his mind fizz and bubble.  He ran his hands over the pronounced muscles of Yuuri’s calves, his dense and powerful thighs.  Yuuri’s legs parted as Yuri pressed against them, spreading wide and inviting, and Yuri slid his palms down between the bed and Yuuri’s ass, squeezing each cheek, spreading him open a little until he saw—

Well, fuck.  _That_ was a part of Yuuri he hadn’t seen in the onsen.  And Yuri was going to push inside it, sink his dick directly into Yuuri Katsuki’s tantalizing heat, and that voice he had heard muffled and moaning through so many hotel room walls was going to be close and clear, right next to Yuri’s ear, calling out _his_ name instead of Victor’s. 

And then, because the universe was still a little cruel:  “Victor,” Yuuri said, tilting his head to look at the corner of the room.  “Don’t let him suffer like that.”

Yuri looked over, too.  Victor and Otabek had dragged a pair of chairs over from the corner of the room, and Otabek was still fully clothed, his dick a painful bulge against the constricting fabric of his jeans.  Victor already had his own dick out, large and heavy in his hand, and now he leaned over, murmured something in Otabek’s ear.  Otabek locked eyes with Yuri and nodded. 

Victor reached between Otabek’s legs, unzipped his jeans.  After a moment of fumbling he drew out Otabek’s dick, the wetness at the tip gleaming momentarily in the light, and Otabek grunted with relief, a sound so low and familiar that it made Yuri’s head swim to hear it so far away, to realize _Victor_ was causing it.  Victor stroked Otabek lightly in his fist, leaned in to mouth at the side of his neck, and through it all Otabek just stared at Yuri, dazed, his need vibrating unacknowledged in his tense muscles. 

Then Yuri felt a grazing touch on his arm, and he looked down to see Yuuri smiling up at him.  “Come on,” Yuuri said.  “Let’s give them something to watch.”

Yuri leaned down and Yuuri reached up, and their mouths met in the middle, wet and hungry.  Yuuri’s arms pulled snug around Yuri’s shoulders as Yuri wrapped his hand around Yuuri’s cock for the very first time.  It gave him a head-spinning feeling of _possession._ He could still remember the first time he felt that way with Otabek—three drunk girls making eyes at him in a club in Paris, lascivious French dripping off their tongues, and at the end of the set Yuri walked up to the soundboard and snatched Otabek away, dragged him into the bathroom and pressed him up against the wall.  “Yura,” Otabek had said, as Yuri dropped to his knees and yanked open Otabek’s belt, “you don’t—”

“You’re fucking _mine,_ _”_ Yuri said, and swallowed him down, blew him with such spiteful vigor that Otabek came down his throat in two minutes flat.   He knew Otabek didn’t care about those girls, didn’t care about anyone except Yuri, but it wasn’t enough.  _Everyone_ had to know who Otabek belonged to. 

And Yuuri didn’t belong to Yuri, but it was very easy to forget it just then, as Yuri jerked Yuuri’s cock and Yuuri kissed him through gasps and shudders.  Yuuri’s legs were still open, and he wrapped them around Yuri, heels digging into the backs of his thighs.  “Closer,” Yuuri said, pulling him down.

Yuri let go of Yuuri’s cock and flattened their bodies together: bare chest to bare chest, their cocks pressed together between them.  He felt the wetness of precome against his stomach and wasn’t sure whose it was.  Yuuri’s hand snaked between them, wrapped itself around both of their cocks, and Yuri lifted his hips just enough to give Yuuri room to start stroking. 

Pleasure and disbelief wrung a sound out of Yuri that he would’ve been self-conscious about two minutes ago.  The outside border of his mind was too fuzzy for self-consciousness now, all his attention on the firm slide of Yuuri’s hand, the molten hardness of Yuuri’s cock surging lengthwise against his.  He leaned down and made that noise again into Yuuri’s neck, close-mouthed, and then he opened his mouth, wide, a slick kiss that drew shut into a snapping bite.  Yuuri said _“Oh”_ in a voice that wasn’t teasing or flirty, a voice that had momentarily lost its authority, and Yuri did it twice more, down the line of his shoulder, taking mouthfuls of Yuuri’s skin that dwindled down into the pinch of skin between his teeth. 

Yuuri’s grip on their cocks loosened, and then his hand fell back on the bed.  For a second Yuri was alarmed, like maybe he had crossed a line, but when he lifted his head to look at Yuuri, Yuuri’s eyes were dazed.  “I don’t want to—” Yuuri said, his enunciation confused and imprecise.  “I want—I don’t want to come until you’re inside me.  Victor?”

Yuri swung his head over: Victor’s hand was slipping away from Otabek’s cock, where it must’ve been this whole time, and reaching down into the suitcase at his side.  Otabek’s eyes were dazed too, the line of his shoulders crooked: he had been leaning in toward Victor, offering up his cock to Victor’s hand, his neck to Victor’s mouth.

Victor tossed something onto the bed.   Yuri didn’t look at it, was only vaguely aware of the sharp plastic _snap_ of a lid opening as he watched Victor lean right back in, his hand moving with astonishing familiarity to Otabek’s cock, stroking in a way that made Otabek’s back arch a little.  Yuri felt a surge of— _jealousy_ didn’t seem like the right word.  It was more like homesickness, a sudden ache winnowing its way through his bone marrow.

He felt Yuuri touch his face.  He looked back.  “Did you want them here on the bed with us?” Yuuri asked.

For a second Yuri felt stupid—to be missing his boyfriend when he was _right there_ , two meters away, all while the object of his teenage sexual fantasies lay spread out underneath him.  But he nodded, and within seconds he felt the way the bed dipped, felt Otabek’s hand on the small of his back.  “Go ahead,” Yuuri said, and Yuri lifted himself up, folded himself against Otabek’s chest, the ache in his bones fading as Otabek’s warmth and scent and low murmuring voice engulfed him. 

“Are you okay?” Otabek asked. 

“Yeah,” Yuri said.  “Yeah.  It’s just...”

“Do you want to stop?”

“No,” Yuri said.  “I just want you with me.”

Otabek kissed him.  “Are you okay if Victor and I still—?”

“Yeah,” Yuri said.  Because Otabek wanted Victor, and Otabek deserved to get everything, _everything_ he wanted. 

In front of them, Victor was resting on his elbows on the bed, one hand cupping Yuuri’s face as he murmured something to him.  And Yuuri was—oh.  The plastic _snap_ had been the cap on the lube bottle, and Yuuri was already two fingers deep in his own ass, fucking himself open with practiced efficiency.  Whatever Victor was saying to him made Yuuri smile, and Victor smiled back, and this time it was definitely jealousy Yuri was feeling, even though that wasn’t fair at all.  _He_ was the one who called the time-out, after all. 

Yuuri reached up with his free hand and pulled Victor’s face down for a kiss, then gave Victor’s cheek a pointed tap with the flat of his hand.  “Not your turn, Victor,” Yuuri said.  “Guests come first.”

Victor lingered just long enough to kiss Yuuri’s rebuking fingers, then moved to the other side of the bed.  Otabek kissed the back of Yuri’s neck and followed him. 

Yuri moved back over Yuuri.  Yuuri’s eyes were dreamy as he fucked himself on his fingers, his free hand lifting, searching out the back of Yuri’s neck.  “You’re not wasting any time,” Yuri said as Yuuri dragged him down. 

“You’ve waited long enough, haven’t you?” Yuuri said, kissing the underside of Yuri’s jaw.  “The lube’s right there.  If you use enough, I think I’ll be able to—”

Yuri grabbed the bottle and slicked up his dick, feeling a little dizzy.  They should’ve been taking their time—Yuuri couldn’t really be ready after such perfunctory prep—but there was a furious imperative sitting in the muscles of Yuri’s hips and pelvis, a desperate invocation to _move_.  Yuuri pulled his fingers out of himself, wiped them clean on the towel they’d laid on the bed beforehand.  He folded his knees up to his chest, and the slight gape of his stretched asshole switched on something feral in Yuri’s brain.  He went to his knees on the bed, dragging Yuuri forward by his bent legs, and nudged his cock against that opening. 

He pushed, and Yuuri pushed back, and for a single intoxicating moment there was resistance.  Then Yuuri stretched open around him with a sharp gasp, and Yuri’s cock slid roughly into the furnace heat of Yuuri’s body.  He went deeper than he expected on the first try, and Yuuri bit off something in Japanese, hands clutching at the sheets.  “Fuck,” Yuri moaned, Yuuri’s legs dangling over his elbows, and now instinct was taking over, hips withdrawing, pulling his cock out just enough to make it mean something when he levered himself forward again. 

And then both of them were moving,  chasing an unsteady rhythm, groaning and gasping as Yuri’s strokes plunged deeper and deeper.  _“Yurio,”_ Yuuri gasped, and _fuck_ if that wasn’t the greatest thing he’d ever heard come out of Yuuri’s mouth, his voice bouncing up and down the syllables as Yuri’s thrusts shoved his body back and forth on the bed.  “I’m not—I know it’s—please—”

Yuuri’s voice was losing its coherence.  “What do you want me to do?” Yuri asked, jaw tight, thoughts melting. 

“Touch me,” Yuuri said.  “ _Please_.  I know—” His voice cut off into a wordless gasp as Yuri changed the angle of his thrusts.  “I know—you can keep going after I come, but I’m right there, please, Yurio, _please—_ ”

In another mood he might’ve taken toe-curling pleasure from making Yuuri beg a little more, hearing that gasping, needy voice grow more agitated and desperate, but just then he wanted to see Yuuri come, wanted to see what Yuuri looked like in fragments.  He gripped Yuuri’s dick and barely had the chance to move his hand through a complete stroke before Yuuri was coming, teeth clenched tight around helpless sound, his body clenched hot and tight around Yuri’s dick.  Yuri jerked him through it, and the feeling of Yuuri’s come dribbling down the backs of his fingers was almost too much for him to take.  _He_ had done that.  Yuuri was panting and frantic and _Yuri_ was the one who had made him that way.  

Then Yuuri was batting Yuri’s hand away from his dick, overstimulated, and he reached up for Yuri’s face and shoulder, pulling him down.  He wanted to be close.  Otabek was like that too, sometimes, after Yuri fucked him.  Yuri clumsily wiped off his hand on the towel underneath them and settled down on top of Yuuri, chest-to-chest, stomach-to-stomach.  He could feel the tackiness of the come that had collected on Yuuri’s abs.  “Just a second,” Yuuri breathed, closing his eyes.  Yuri opened and closed his hand reflexively in Yuuri’s hair, vibrating with the need to move. 

Finally:  “Slow,” Yuuri said, and Yuri bit his lip and pulled out, slowly, and pushed in, slowly.  Yuuri’s face twisted up, a pained sound in his throat, and there was something mindblowingly hot about that, about the thought of Yuuri suffering through overstimulation for him.  _Enduring_ for him.  Yuri couldn’t keep it slow after that: his thrusts quickened, and Yuuri squeezed his eyes shut and cried out, and Yuri leaned down to kiss him, felt Yuuri’s lips move inconsistent and distracted against his.  _“Yurio,_ ” he said, and then: “Victor.  He can come inside me, right?”

“Yes,” Victor said, and if Yuri had been able to pry his focus away from Yuuri, he might’ve looked at Victor to see what kind of expression he was making for his voice to sound the way it did: scraped of cadence, just a rough burr.  But Yuri couldn’t have looked away from Yuuri’s face if he tried.  Yuuri’s swollen lips, parted around his panting breaths, pressed together hard for a second while he swallowed.  Then: “Fill me up,” Yuuri said, _begged_ , his voice pleading.  His hands pulled Yuri’s face down to his, kissing him sloppily, repeating the words against Yuri’s mouth: “Fill me up, Yurio, I need it, I _need_ it—”

And what the fuck was Yuri supposed to do with _that_ except drop his head down to rest on Yuuri’s shoulder and _pummel_ him, slam into Yuuri so hard that Yuuri’s begging fell apart into a rasping wail, and then come so hard it was like crashing into a brick wall? 

Time ceased to have meaning for a little while.  Yuri’s head buzzed.  He was dimly aware of Yuuri’s mouth on his, of the hot press of their skin together, a trill of soft pleasure as Yuuri raked his nails through Yuri’s hair.  “Yurio,” he murmured, and Yuri blinked at him.  He realized most of his weight was still on top of Yuuri, that his soft cock had slipped from Yuuri’s body.

He rolled over onto his side.  Behind Yuuri, he could see Victor and Otabek on the other side of the bed.  Their clothes were gone: Otabek was looking at Yuri with something like awe, while Victor was spooned behind him, his hand moving obscurely between their bodies.  He saw Otabek’s chest hitch with a gasp, and he realized Victor must be opening him up, fingers slick and deep inside him, getting him ready for his turn.

“We should let you—” Yuuri started to say.  He made a move to get up. 

“No,” Otabek said, his voice rough.  “Stay.  Both of you.”

Yuuri looked surprised, but sank back down.  “Yura,” Otabek said, and Yuri got up, climbed carefully over Yuuri into the sliver of space in front of Otabek.  Otabek pushed his face into Yuri’s, giving him a loose and wobbly kiss.  “You’ll stay with me?” Otabek asked, voice low and uneven.

Yuri cupped Otabek’s face in his hands.  “Of course,”  he said, kissing him again.  “Of course.”

Otabek swallowed and got up on his hands and knees.  Victor rose too, his cock stiff, massive-looking.  “You’re sure you’re ready?” he asked Otabek. 

“Yes.”

And so Victor aimed, nudged forward, pressed in, and Otabek’s chest heaved with sudden sound.  “Oh fuck,” he gasped.  “Oh _shit_ —”

Victor hesitated.  “Are you all ri—”

 _“Keep going,”_ Otabek said, and Victor did, pushing inexorably, his cock sinking into Otabek’s body with agonizing slowness.  Yuri didn’t have a word for what he was feeling as he watched his boyfriend pant and gasp, his normal reserve gone, all his attention focused on _accommodating_.  Otabek had always looked amazing with a cock up his ass, but this was on another fucking level entirely.  

Victor hadn’t quite bottomed out when Otabek said _“wait,”_ and Victor halted, one hand caressing Otabek’s hip.  “Yura,” Otabek said, and Yuri moved forward without even thinking, went to his knees on the bed and put their heads close together.  Otabek looked at him through glazed eyes and Yuri cupped his jaw, kissed his slack and trembling lips.  “Is it okay?” Otabek asked. 

Yuri wasn’t sure what kind of reassurance Otabek was looking for, but:  “Yeah,” he said, kissing Otabek again, stroking the side of his face.  “God, you look _so fucking good._   How does it feel?”

“It’s a lot,” Otabek managed.

“And you’re taking it so well.  Do you want to wait a minute to get used to it?”

Otabek nodded, and Yuri shifted on the bed, sat down close so Otabek could rest his head in Yuri’s lap.  Behind him, still embedded deep in his ass, Victor was gently massaging the muscles of Otabek’s lower back with his thumbs, and after a moment Yuuri got up and wrapped himself around Victor from behind.  He didn’t demand Victor’s attention; he just kept him warm as they waited in the languid silence, as Otabek’s breathing evened and the strained muscles of his back slowly relaxed. 

“Okay,” Otabek said finally, although he didn’t lift his head from Yuri’s lap.  “You can move.”

Victor rocked his hips forward, and Otabek groaned, and then he did it again, and from there it was a slowly building rhythm, the punctuating _ah_ of Otabek’s voice in delirious counterpoint to the smack of skin as Victor fucked into him.  Otabek’s cock jolted untouched between his legs, and Yuri said, his voice shaking, “Can I touch you? Beka?”

Otabek nodded, and Yuri took his cock in his fist, precome smearing wet over his hand.  He caught the rhythm too: jerking Otabek hard, steady, until Otabek’s gasps were coming faster than his hand could move, until Victor’s thighs were slapping wet and loud against Otabek’s ass.  And then Victor was groaning, hips grinding hard as he came, and Otabek had dropped his face into the bedspread, his voice muffled and pained as he spurted in Yuri’s hand.

There was a moment of quiet, the air empty except for the sound of breathing, and then Victor carefully pulled out. The rest of Otabek dropped to the bed, boneless and flushed, and Yuri curled up next to him, stroking his hair.  “Beka?” he asked.  “Are you okay?  Beka?”

Otabek turned his head, his cheek pressed against the bedspread.  He had his eyes closed, but there was no mistaking that tiny upward tick on the edge of his mouth. 

“Yeah,” he said.  “Perfect.”


End file.
